A Polar Bear's Nose
by SlvrSoleAlchmst1
Summary: Hinted shounen ai: Dearka x Yzak. Dearka and Yzak are stuck aboard the Lesseps in the middle of a sandstorm. Dearka flirts shamelessly, the Desert Tiger brings them coffee, and polar bears in blizzards are found only by their noses...


_No, _**Tobi Tortue**_, this is not your contest fic yet. I apologize for that. This is, however, a fic I wrote for a Secret Santa gig on LJ. I'm not sure whom I was writing for, but her idea rocked. The prompt was, "bad weather, fuzzy radio channels, and a nice, hot cup of coffee." First I panicked. Then it clicked. Now we have attempted humor. MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!_

Dearka squinted out the portside window of the Lesseps, frustrated when all he saw was his reflection fired back at him. He blocked his own view of the outside. It was night out, and the interior of the ship was too bright to do anything but return all indoor images in reverse, like a still pool of oily black. He shifted and shaded his eyes with his hands.

"Why don't you press your nose onto the glass and see if that works any better?" A snort of annoyance echoed behind him, and Dearka abandoned his pursuit to face his fellow Coordinator.

"Why don't _you?_ You've already got your arrogant nose up in the air. Put it to use."

Yzak sneered and folded his arms over his chest. "I already know it's futile. What makes you think we'll be able to locate the enemy in some stupid nighttime sandstorm? It's like looking for a polar bear in a blizzard."

Dearka choked and strained to suppress a guffaw, but he soon gave up. He threw back his head and laughed while Yzak simmered.

"Relax, Yzak," he said finally, wiping away tears of mirth while the silver head ignored him, "Everyone knows that if you want to find a polar bear in a blizzard, you look for his nose. It's the only thing that shows up, because it's black."

Yzak straightened in his chair. "_Everyone_ does not know that, Elsman. But I'll let _you_ enlighten Commander Waltfeld to see if it does us any good." His voice rang out, mocking and cold. "'Excuse me, sir, I have an idea. All we have to do is look for the Naturals' noses, and we'll find the legged ship!'"

Dearka doubled over and clutched his stomach, breathless with hilarity. "I sound nothing like that."

Yzak rolled his eyes. "Shut _up_, Dearka."

When the blonde caught his breath, he flashed Yzak a charming smile. "You're hysterical even when you're mad. You should lighten up, though. Nicol and Athrun wouldn't have minded a joke if they were here."

Yzak's gaze strayed to the window. Dearka wondered if he was trying to see outside. He squinted again, but all he saw was the backwards image of the rec room they waited in – half empty cola machine, harsh, plain tables, video screen on the opposite wall.

Yzak leaned his head back and closed his eyes. "Zala isn't here, and neither is Nicol. It was _us_ that were given this mission, Dearka. Commander Le Creuset wants that legged ship finished."

His voice was grave. When he frowned, the purpled scar across his face slithered like an angry viper. Dearka took a deep breath and flopped onto a chair, dropping all pretenses and adopting a tone of equal seriousness.

"I haven't forgotten why we're here, Yzak," he said. "And if there's one good thing about this sandstorm, it's that if we can't find the enemy, the enemy can't find us either. This ship is perfectly camouflaged. We look like every other sand dune out here in this crazy weather - invisible."

Yzak had followed his descent to the chair with sharp, narrowed eyes. "What if they look for our noses?"

Dearka raised an amused eyebrow as the rec room door slid open. He caught a dash of yellow from his peripheral vision.

"What's this?" sounded a deep, friendly voice from behind. Friendly, but with a dangerous undertone that only one man could possess.

Andrew Waltfeld frowned when neither of the two red coats responded immediately. "Is this the training of Le Creuset's elite soldiers? Shouldn't you be standing up right about now and saluting me?"

Dearka tossed a hesitating glance in Yzak's direction, but he rose quickly. "Commander," he saluted, and to his relief Yzak climbed to his feet as well.

"Can't you locate the enemy, sir?" Yzak asked mid-salute. His features were cinched in an expression of irritation.

The Desert Tiger scanned Yzak steadily, but when he spoke his tone was level. "Because of the N-jammers in the area, most of our technology is virtually useless," he said. "Radio channels are out now too – all we get is white noise. There are other ways to pinpoint the enemy ship, but no one would be able to see a thing to get us there. We could navigate the Lesseps through alternative sensory methods, but DaCosta and the others are used to maneuvering this desert by what they can see with their eyes." Waltfeld grinned wryly. "The storm will be over soon, and the enemy can't move until then either. There's no harm in waiting it out."

Yzak's mouth formed a thin line. "So we're going to sit back and do nothing until the sandstorm clears?"

Dearka suppressed a flinch at his companion's insolent bite.

"Are you asking me to jeopardize the lives of my men?" The Tiger was scowling now, and danger rode the words off his lips like balefire. "I don't know how you do things on Le Creuset's team, but down here on Earth, we're not so quick to put ourselves into harm's way if it isn't completely necessary."

"Completely necessary?" Yzak sounded offended. Dearka knew what he was thinking, and a glance at the Desert Tiger told him that Waltfeld knew as well. They had been ordered to take down the legged ship at all costs. Surely a venture into the stormy desert to achieve their objective was worth risking the troops?

But Waltfeld set his jaw firm. "Do you have any alternative strategies?" he asked Yzak coolly. "As one of Le Creuset's oh-so-skilled mobile suit pilots?" Dearka knew the remark must have stung, but thankfully Yzak refrained from exploding.

The silver head dropped his glare to one side. "We could launch the Buster and Duel and search for noses," he muttered.

Dearka tried not to burst into another fit of laughter, but his attempt was unsuccessful.

"Is there something you find amusing, Mr. Elsman?" asked Waltfeld, and Dearka stifled his reaction with a snigger that turned into a tight swallow.

"No, sir."

"That's too bad. Because as long as we're stuck here…" the casual brightness was back in the Desert Tiger's tone, "…we might as well have a little fun, and keep awake, too."

Dearka's eyes widened as his commander turned on his heel and headed back to the door. "A little fun, sir?"

The Desert Tiger cast him a mischievous grin. "You two will have to be the guinea pigs for my latest experimental brew." Then he stepped back outside, hollering for DaCosta and a trio of coffee mugs.

When the door slid closed, Yzak kicked the leg of his chair and cursed. "This is ridiculous," he growled. "We could be out there killing the Strike pilot, and instead we're going to sample espresso!"

Dearka batted his eyelashes, clasped his hands, and pitched his voice up an octave. "'We could launch the Buster and Duel and search for noses! Oh pretty _please_, Commander Waltfeld, sir. Let me go outside – I want to kill the Stri-ike!'"

Yzak launched himself at the blonde with a snarl. "I'll tear your whiny feminine lungs out, Elsman! Try mimicking me in that obnoxious voice again!"

Dearka raised his hands to block the silver head's fist, chuckling. "Hey, go easy. It's your fault that we almost got into trouble."

"It's the _Tiger's_ fault that we're stuck here in bad weather with no communication and nothing to do but drink his lousy coffee!"

Dearka was still holding on to Yzak's renegade fist. "You never know," he reflected, while Yzak struggled to tear free. Suddenly he had a wicked idea. "It might be good coffee. And besides, if we still get bored, there are always other things we can experiment with to keep ourselves _entertained_…" He made sure to dip his voice into a coat of sweet seduction.

Yzak froze; disgust and embarrassment contorted his features while Dearka hinted further obscenities through the use of his violet stare. The silver head ripped his hand away and retreated to the far side of the rec room.

"Get your paws off me, Elsman. I hope your damned libido destroys you one day."

"What a ring of prophetic irony _that_ has." Dearka's grin nearly split his face in half. "Better than dying in a mobile suit, I guess. But we're in a war, and I could die in a mobile suit any day. If I want to avoid _that_ fate and go out with some killer sex instead, I'll probably have to have it with you." Yzak released a loud swear, but Dearka talked over him. "You're so violent though. You'd bruise my ass and hang it out to dry. Distasteful, yet still better than the alternative…"

"I'll bruise more than your back side if you come near me, you bastard!" Yzak's face flushed scarlet.

Dearka sauntered to where the silver head quivered livid, knocking up his pitch again. "Oh, Yzak, that's how I like it! Kill me with your pleasurable torture and fulfill the prophecy about my libido destroying me!" In his usual voice, he added, "But I changed my mind, I think. I want to be on top doing the bruising."

Yzak sputtered another tangle of swear words.

"We'll never have any _privacy_, though. Where would we…? Oh, COCKPIT SEX."

Yzak's face drained rapidly to white.

"'Dearka Elsman,'" the blonde continued to muse with a hand on his chin, quoting the imaginary headlines with relish, "'Killed on active duty – not by Naturals, but by his fiery sex drive and one delicious, enticing Yzak Joule…'"

The mechanical door slid open again, and Waltfeld reentered, balancing three steaming mugs. He set them down on the table and fixed his steady gaze on the two young Coordinators in their active stances. "Well, this scene is much more lively than it was when I left you."

Dearka cleared his throat and lowered the hand he had been about to use to caress Yzak's cheek. Yzak looked ill.

"We're ready for that coffee, sir," Dearka volunteered to give Yzak time to collect himself. He wished he hadn't harassed his fellow pilot so. Luckily, the mention of caffeine successfully diverted the Tiger's attention.

"I concocted this brew this morning," Waltfeld said, lifting his mug to his nose and breathing in the sharp aroma. "It's pineapple hazelnut. Do either of you boys have a taste for coffee? Tell me what you think."

Yzak neared the table cautiously. "_Pineapple_…"

Dearka swiped a mug and boldly downed a sip. The commander was watching him from over the edge of his own drink. He swallowed and paused to evaluate the taste.

"This coffee is…"

"Yes?" the Desert Tiger prompted eagerly, while Yzak monitored the blonde for any signs of sudden throat constriction, tongue swelling, seizure or rampant nausea.

Dearka licked his lips. "…Good," he finished. "This coffee is really good." He saw Yzak sag in relief, albeit still skeptical, while Andrew Waltfeld sat back in satisfaction and nodded to himself.

"Although next time," the Tiger mumbled next, "I should probably use about three percent more hazelnut."

Yzak, thoroughly disbelieving, swiped the mug from Dearka's tanned hands and brought the rim to his lips. As he placed his lips where Dearka's had been in order to taste the Tiger's creation, Dearka grinned.

He caught Yzak's eye.

Then he grinned some more.

Yzak practically spewed his mouthful of coffee across the table and onto Waltfeld's yellow shirtfront.

"ELSMAN!"

Dearka's lips parted, and his smile was all teeth and daring and raw amusement. Yzak entertained him to no end. He hadn't even needed to speak a single word that time.

"Did I miss something?" Waltfeld asked carefully. "What does Le Creuset _do_ to you boys up in space?" The double entendre did nothing for Yzak's condition.

"You know, Yzak," Dearka struggled with his urge to unnerve the Duel pilot further, "You have your own mug. But if you want go for an indirect kiss, just go ahead and keep mine."

Waltfeld shook his head as the manner of their joking came to light. "Anything goes when you're down here on Earth and away from the team, is that it?" His lips quirked, but Yzak stayed as stoic as possible in the presence of authority.

"Down here on Earth where the sand can make a blizzard of itself, you mean?" Yzak spat presumptuously. "This is no time to crack jokes!"

Dearka took a seat. "Actually, I think the storm is kind of pretty."

Calm at last, the silver head sat down again as well. "How do you know? You can't even see outside."

"Can't you?" asked the Desert Tiger, sipping his coffee with a secretive grin. "Did you try the light switch yet?"

Dearka and Yzak cast him blank stares.

The video screen flickered on then, and DaCosta's face sought out the commander. "Sir," he said, "The radio is back up and all the systems are online. The storm is abating. Could you come back to the bridge?"

Waltfeld acquiesced, and when the screen flickered off once more, he rose. "So much for our little coffee house meeting," he exclaimed. "We'll find the legged ship as soon as we can. Oh, and…" He neared the door and pressed a button on the wall. The rec room lights clicked off.

Out the window fluttered a spiral of particles. They pirouetted against the night sky, dancing a furious desert ballet. The sand was shining white in the darkness.

"It looks like snow," Dearka observed, feeling foolish for not thinking to try the lights from the start. Then he glanced at his warm mug of coffee. "And a nice cup of something hot to drink… It kind of feels like Christmas."

"Idiot," Yzak breathed, but his eyes were on the sandstorm.

Waltfeld waved. "I'll call you both to the hangar when you can launch," he said as he exited. The door closed behind him.

"Whenever _that_ is," Yzak grunted after he was sure the commander was gone. "I hate that guy. I don't care how renowned he is. He's nowhere near as competent as Commander Le Creuset."

Dearka's eyes twinkled, and he blew on his drink. "I don't know about that," he ventured. Yzak shot him a questioning glare. "I mean, he turned off the lights as he was leaving. Nice touch, setting the mood for us like that and giving us some time alone."

"D-Dearka!"

"It's so dark in here," Dearka quipped, flailing his arms around wildly. "Finding each other is going to be like looking for a polar bear in a blizzard!"

"Elsman, for the love of ZAFT…"

"But if I just locate his _nose_, I'm sure his lips will be a cake walk!"

"Touch my lips and you die, you bastard!"

"Hmm, maybe over here? No wait, over _here_…"

"LET GO OF ME. DON'T TOUCH ME THERE!"

Their coffee mugs belched quiet steam, and the Lesseps began to lurch into motion. The sandstorm outside faded. Dearka ducked a swing from Yzak.

So ended an episode of fuzzy radio channels, bad weather, and nice, hot cups of coffee.


End file.
